Good Enough

Lately there’s been strange thing happening around here…the offspring have a lot more time to govern themselves, and most of the time they’re doing alright.

Was this my influence, or just their utter boredom that forces them to become eachother’s playmates?

Yes, I’m still here, although I think all my friends and associates are going to be through with me soon if I don’t start answering the phone, and e-mails.

Life is just unstable with a newborn, what can I say?

I’m surviving. The kids are getting food. The mommy is getting showers on most days. The baby is getting chubby.

She’s a serious eater, she takes her milk very seriously, and no one can feed her but this gal sitting in this seat.

So I’m busy. Like mostly every hour I’m busy. But I pumped for the first time tonight and have yet to see how my husband did getting her to take a bottle. I think he did fine because I don’t hear any screaming and she is serious about her food and I think it’s the end result that matters.

I need to go sleep while I can!

xo

Eve 

I’m relearning that new baby= only having one arm available at any given moment. Such as these… 

Open an apple juice bottle- the trick is to hold it between your knees to prevent the bottle from turning.

Type-this one takes some time, but it can be done.

Take a 2 year old to the potty.

Read. 

Talk on the phone.

Pour cereal.

Hook the dog up to her run. (that was tricky, and she wanted to lick all over Annie)

so what can you do one handed? 

The calm before the storm…

I guess I should have gotten more sleep the evening before, but you know, my last birth had gone so smoothly.

12 hours of labor with a child “sunny side up” and an epidural that was not working correctly and threats of a c-section from an unsympathetic doctor…and I was finally able to glimpse my treasure.

She was so worth it. 7lbs. 2 oz. Love at first sight.

Her brother’s and sister love her too.

So two weeks ago whilst Missy was enjoying an Equestrian experience…really she’s enjoying herself, I don’t know what the deal is with her scowl in this photo! 

I decided that bringing my boys berry picking at the local U-pick farm would be a wonderful experience for ALL involved…umm…yeah. I guess I forgot about my experience berry picking with my mom as a child. The first fifteen minutes were delightful, and then I spent the next 2 hours wondering how my mom could search through every leaf, gleaning off the strawberries, moving down the long row at a snails pace. It wasn’t fun for me. It was torture!

Like I said, I must have forgotten all this, but it came flooding back to me in visions as I tried to pick as many berries as my pregnant body could handle. This one did okay for about 30 minutes. I had him sit across from me and I made it into a sort of contest. Buster is very competitive and was able to concentrate for the most part.

The problem was…my 2 year old. Don’t let the care free exterior fool you. He liked being in the strawberry patch, but he also like playing sword fights with the stakes at the end of the rows, throwing dirt clods, and running far far away until he just couldn’t hear mom call “COME BACK.” And when the 7 year old was sent to retrieve his little Bubba, fights ensued.

Oh it was a joyful day. My only goal was to get to the end of my rown. Scooting along on my bum because you KNOW I wasn’t leaning over with my big pregnant belly. I should mention that the row I was assigned was half the size of a normal row and I thought the goal was attainable.

In the end, after one tantrum and having to take the little one to the car to show him how serious I was about his behavior, we ended up with two whole flats! That was 11lbs. Not bad for two hours work and two bored children.

And the best part was what happened later when I made my very first homemade strawberry pies.

So worth it.

Every bite washed away the pain and agony of a hard day’s work!

I’ve been through it before…leaving a child somewhere for the first time, on their own.

When I took my eldest son to preschool, a mere 3 minutes from home, for a mere 2 hours…I’ll admit I was teary eyed.

Then I sent him on the bus to kindergarten. I hid my tears with sunglasses.

My daughter is 4 1/2 years old. I’ve done a co-op preschool where we rotate friends homes every week…but that’s it. I keep her protectively under my wing. Until today.

Today I drove 30 minutes into the hills and dropped her off at a farm for “Pony Camp.”

Missy has never been a lover of dolls. She’s one of those children who prefers the company of hairier beasts. She’s always been quite at home with animals, and she of course LOVES horses so when I saw the flier I couldn’t resist signing her up. I signed her up that very day and sent in my cash. And then I began to worry…she’s half an hour away, she knows NO ONE, she’ll be gone fore THREE HOURS, what if she gets home sick? What if she’s too shy to communicate?

Still, today I drove her up the long winding gravel roads, made some wrong turns, and finally arrived a few minutes late to Pony Camp. When she saw all the horses she was awestruck. Bianca (owner/operator) assured me she would have a great time and I was welcome to “take off.”  She then proceeded to get Missy in her helmet and lead her to the line of ponies that awaited her.

“I really don’t want to take off,” I felt like saying. “I think I’ll stick around for awhile.” But in true Eve fashion I smiled and said my good-bye and left.

I made the drive home with thoughts of all that could go wrong running through my head YET AGAIN. This time some of the worries included Missy being kicked in the face by a horse, or forgotten and left behind on accident. I also felt like I should have asked Missy if she was comfortable enough for me to leave. I almost turned around and drove back.

And now I’m here counting the minutes until I can go pick up my little girl. 30 minutes and counting people! In my heart of hearts I know she’s just fine. But it sure is painful to cut those apron strings for the first time!

 Update 6/23/08

This is a picture from two November’s ago. I will have fresh updates after Wednesday. My camera needs to be mended. It is not cold enough in Washington to be wearing gloves and a jacket. It is actually a very pleasant low-70’s.

When I picked Missy up, she started crying and said she couldn’t leave her new pony friend “Pretzel.” Typical. Horses over moms. I should have known. 

My eyes are slightly puffy this morning…the kind of puffiness that exists after a girl has had a good cry the night before.

I took Buster to have a check up yesterday, his last was 2 1/2 years ago before we left California. I had a lot on my mind with him. He has issue’s at school, nothing I thought was too out of the ordinary. His teacher worried about his hearing because she could be right next to him talking and get no response.

I know better. The kid has an amazing ability to tune us out. He’s a dreamer. Sometimes a trouble maker. But he is intelligent and though I’ve had extra work to do with him at home, he’s progressing through his first grade year at an average speed.

Buster has always been a bigger child. He was born at 10lbs and though he was exclusively on momma’s milk, he gained a pound a week for the first few months of his life.

His height was always in the 75% and his weight was in the 95%. Consistently. He was stocky, like his Dad. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I don’t know when it happened. It crept up on me. They checked his height and weight, and then the doctor said the words that sent me spiraling into panic. “Your son is considered to be obese.”

Obese? What happened to stocky? What happened to “he’s just a bigger kid, he’ll grow out of it.” He’s obese.

I feel like a failure.

I have never had a weight problem in my life. No one in my immediate family is obese. We all have a healthy relationship with food. We eat to live in my family. As children, food was never a big deal. Mom made the meals, we ate them, or complained and were forced to eat them.

I remember the first five years of my life consisted of three meals. The same every day because we couldn’t afford much else…oatmeal, pb and j, and chili. That’s what we ate almost every day.

Mr.Good’s family does have problems. Both his parents are morbidly obese. They both have type 2 diabetes. His dad has rheumitoid arthritis. His oldre brother and sister are obese. His other sister constatly battle the bulge but manages to stay fit. Mr. Good is sotcky. I feed him healthy food. I don’t buy ice cream very often. It’s his family down fall. He plays basketball twice a week. He builds kitchens and cabinets for a living. My husband is healthy.

So how did this happen to my Buster? He’s a part of me. Doesn’t that count for something?

Every question the doctor asked was answered honestly.

“What do you eat for dinner?”

“Last night was couscous and pork loin. Buster tried the couscous. He didn’t like it. The night before was grilled chicken and cabbage salad.”

“What is usually for lunch?”

“I pack a turkey sandwich, or pb and j. A yogurt, a fruit. Sometimes a little handful of kettle chips or crackers.”

“Breakfast?”

“Mostly cold cereal. Frosted mini-wheats. Cheerios. Once or twice a week I make pancakes or scrambled eggs. Sometimes he just has English muffins.”

“Does he snack?”

“Yes they still have snack in first grade. Usually just crackers or a granola bar.”

“Well it could be what he’s drinking?”

“We hardly ever have soda. (another item Mr.Good grew up on and loves.) Only on special occasions. And I don’t buy juice unless someone is sick.”

“It sounds like you are doing everything right. We’ll take a blood sample and check his thyroid and glucose levels. And here is the number for a good nutritionist.”

Okay. We’re doing everything right. But I can’t help but think back to every time he’s had fast food. Though it is not often, maybe it should have been never. What about the times I could bring myself to make dinner and I ordered pizza? Was I gradually adding on the pounds without knowing it? While the rest of the world can occasionally partake, I feel like my son must be denied these things indefinately. Meanwhile, my other children are average size, my daughter is on the smaller side. I was sent to the nutritionist once because she was under weight.

The doctor said there is not much else we can do, except bump up his activity level. They don’t want children losing weight at this age. Their hope is that he can just maintain, and then grow out of it when he goes through puberty.

So my son is to remain obese through his childhood years. That’s a long time. He’s only 6. Somewhere along the way I have failed my son. I am his mother, I am his nutritionist. His personal physician. I didn’t do my job well. I’m crushed at this point. But I don’t want him to see it. I don’t want him to know how incredibly scared I am for him. I don’t want him to have THIS struggle in life. There are so many extra challenges he will have to face. My Buster.

 Easier said then done…coming from a six-sibling family I have witnessed this first hand. Growing up we fought with each-other fiercely. My parents were always pleading with us to get along, and were baffled as to why we were constantly at one another. My parents were blessed with 6 strong willed, sass-mouthed, prideful personalities. We fought over the silliest objects for the sake of winning. And as we grew, we argued for the sake of arguing. We loved a good debate in my house. I have to say that life wasn’t a constant battleground. There were times we played very nicely together. My Little Ponies were horses to my brother’s G.I.Joe’s. We built forts together. We played Indians. I remember playing with my two brothers with fondness
Looking back I chalk up the contention to a couple of reasons.

1.) As I said before, we were all strong willed. There is not one passive, humble child in our bunch. I think my parents just lucked out.

2.) My parents both came from relatively quiet homes where it just didn’t happen like that. I don’t think they knew what to do with us, and so instead of preventative measures they dealt with the fighting when it happened. 

Bless them. They really did try. We had plenty of family togetherness and quality time…but I somehow wonder if things would have been different had they tried another tactic.

I feel growing up as I did gives me the upper hand on my children. While I realize that all siblings argue and fight, I hope I can teach my children the value of their relationships with each other at an early age.  I regret that I didn’t know what an asset my brothers and sisters would be to me as I grew and moved on with life. And now, although I know we all love each other, it just isn’t as good as it could have been if we built a strong foundation at a younger age.

I don’t claim to know it all…As we speak both boys are in time-out for their first big fight. Granted there have been arguements, some little accidental damages, and of course the 2 year old trying to abuse the older siblings, but they take it in stride for the most part.

Today was different…as we are nearing the end of our mid-winter break the children have been subjected to each other for longer amounts of time. There is no preschool, first grade, or Mommy and Me music class to break up the day with our family. My children have been together 24/7 this week. There was a discrepancy over who could play what part of the piano. Then Bubba bit Buster with intent to break skin. It hurt Buster and caught him by surprise and he punched Bubba in the head. (I must admit being bitten does cause immediate hitting reflexes.) Never-the-less, both were sent off to their various “time-out” spots. When reunited the brothers threw their arms around one another, shouting words of apology and were back to their jolly good selves.

I don’t think a time-out will prevent fighting in the future.

I think I am overly conscious about the dynamic between my children. I have three younger sisters that sometimes felt left out in what us older children were doing. I already notice that my older two exclude the youngest, climbing to places they know he can’t get to, or making him be the villain of the game when they get to be hero’s. I discourage this. I know Bubba wants to be included in their games but he often gets frustrated and comes and hangs out with me instead.
I find myself intervening often. Helping them choose different characters for Bubba to make him feel good. I teach Buster to lose every so often to the young ones, to build their confidence and teach him that sacrificing for the team can be a sweet thing. When they have their fights, hugging and saying sorry is a must, aswell as the allotted time for “self-reflection.” If they are playing and one gets hurt, I encourage the others to check on the hurt sibling (instead of only mom doing it) and ask if they’re okay. When one of my children tattles on another for a harmless prank I find myself a little disappointed. “Don’t you want to stick up for your brother?” I’ll ask. In my house tattling is not tolerated, unless someone or something will be harmed.

I know it sounds like fluff. And it doesn’t always work, and there is some nagging involved… I know only time will tell if my little theories work out. I love my family. I love that my children have each-other. I hope they realize sooner than later how lucky they are. Maybe we can spend less time fighting, and more time laughing in my home
Your thoughts on the subject are appreciated.

All I can do is hold my breath and hope it works.  

I had to do it.

I had to go ahead and make the appointment.

This pregnancy needed to be officially validated, and I was tired of waiting for The State to decide if they were going to insure us or not.

Yesterday I had a very unpleasant conversation with one of the State Employees. She was extremely unhelpful and annoyed. “They expect us to be accountants.” She said. “We are not accountants. I can’t understand all these receipts.”

“Is there somewhere where we can all sit down together and go over them?” I asked.

“No. We are a virtual company. There is no office…I”m going to have to look at all this after work. I don’t have time to do it here.”

“You don’t have time to do work at work?” I asked. That goes to show you what a well-oiled machine our Human Services Department is.

So today as I lay staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember to breathe, dollar signs began flashing on the florescent lights in front of me.

One Pa*p Sme*ar…cha-ching!

We need a sample in the cup please…cha-ching!

Let’s see if we can hear a heart beat…cha-ching ching!

One Blood Sample, seven tests ordered for no good reason…cha-ching!

I found myself saying “No, we don’t need to test for any extra abnormalities. Just the basics.”

“How about HIV?”

“No, not necessary. I’ve had about 5 or 6 in my lifetime. They’re always negative.”

“How about AFP?”

“I don’t think so. I mean what can they do if it’s a positive?”

“Nothing.”

“Then no.”

“What about genetic testing.”

“That’ll be a no as well. It sounds pricey.”

But hey!  If I paid up front at the office I received a 10% discount! How’s that for good news?

No, the good news is they did find a heart beat. I love to hear that sound each time I go in. It reminds me that it’s all worth it. No one can really put a price on our baby. Though I did leave the office with a considerably lighter wallet.

Meanwhile back at the ranch I forgot that I had three children from two different families coming over for my weekly babysitting swap. 

“Uh Mr.Good? On top of getting Buster off to school and taking care of our 2 youngens, while I’m at the baby doctor’s, there will be a few additions…Zach and Zoe will be here at around 9am…Bella comes around 9:20 xoxo luv ya!”

After that night Buster’s health did not get any better.

He still had trouble uri*nating. He was moody. But after the hospital visit, Mr.Good was even more assured that nothing was wrong with our boy.

The next weekend rolled around, and matters became clearly defined.  Buster began throwing up and having loose bow*els by Sunday evening. I stayed up with him all night. He began complaining of intense stomach pains. I let him relax in the bath, where he could barely sit up straight. He was getting very weak. By Monday he could only sit on his little inflatable bed. We had to carry him around on it because he was in too much pain for us to touch and hold him directly.

Mr.Good left for work that morning.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I loaded up Missy and Buster in the car and headed to Auntie’s house. I would leave Missy there and take Buster to his pediatrician. I had given him some ibuprofen that morning and it seemed to help his mood. His pediatrician was, of course booked that day, we saw the Nurse Practitioner. I immediately liked her. She took me seriously, she was sensitive to the fact that we had no health insurance. Although Buster performed like a champ for her she was still suspicious. She poked his inflated tummy. He seemed to have a lot of gas, and said it didn’t hurt that much. She asked him where it hurt the most, he indicated to his right side. But even then, not that much, he said with his three year old wisdom. She asked him to jump up and down. He did. She asked if it hurt. He said no. He had a smile on his face.

This was a different boy than I had nursed the night before.

She suspected appendicitis. She said we should go to Children’s Hospital to be diagnosed. They had programs there for people without insurance. We would have to wait in the E.R. that was adjacent to the Regional Hospital. Everyone had to be admitted through there.

Picture the waiting room of the regional E.R. in downtown Anaheim CA. It was packed. We waited for four hours. I debated leaving. Buster seemed fine. Was it really worth it? He was smiling, laughing, walking around. After two hours I asked the admitting attendance. 

You should wait. She said. Even if you go back to his ped’s and he gets diagnosed with appendicitis there, he’d have to come back through here to be admitted. It shouldn’t be too long now.

I couldn’t help judging the people I saw as I sat there with Buster and his favorite blanky curled in my lap. No one really seemed as sick as he had. The little 11 year old girl across from us sat there with her father. She looked fine. She was being over dramatic to get out of school. That’s what I thought about her.

Then there was the little baby with a head wound. Why didn’t they make him priority?

It looks worse than it is. They told the mother.

I wanted to scream. IF MY SON IS HAVING AN APPENDICITIS IT COULD BE ABOUT TO BURST! DOES ANYONE CARE ABOUT THAT?

But we waited in silence. For two more hours.

What a relief it was for me when we saw a real nurse. She weighed Buster, took his temperature. It was high. We talked about his symptoms. He was admitted to a small room decorated for children, with a TV/Video on the wall. Oh joy of joys! He could finally relax. A nice Doctor came in and apologized for the wait. He was handsome. As far as I was concerned nothing else mattered. This man would tell me what was wrong with my child.

They started Buster on an I.V. drip. He was dehydrated. I told the nurse he only got one poke with Buster, he better get it right the first time. Buster was eerily calm with all that was going on. He didn’t seem to care. He kept his eyes on the movie. The nurse got it in right away. By this time Mr.Good and Grandpa Good showed up.   

They came and took our little boy in for an ultrasound. I remember seeing a technician and a doctor in the small room. They were shocked at what they were seeing. His appendix had burst, and been broken for many days now. Pockets of infection riddled his stomach. The largest one was covering his bla*dder and ure*thra.  Which was why he couldn’t use the toilet.

He is the bravest little guy I’ve ever met, said the Doctor. I can’t believe he’s not screaming in pain right now. 

So what’s next? I asked. Are you going to operate? I had visions in my mind of a quick, easy surgery, and Buster coming home in a few days.

Little did I know that the diagnosis was just the beginning. My husband and I had no idea what a nightmare that next month would be. The battle was far from over.